The Feud of Pickles.
"Thar's a big crowd in Wolfville that June day." The Old Cattleman
tilted his chair back and challenged my interest with his eye. "The
corrals is full of pack mules an' bull teams an' wagon-trains; an'
white men, Mexicans, half-breeds an' Injuns is a-mixin' an'
meanderin' 'round, a-lyin' an' a-laughin' an' a-drinkin' of Red
Light whiskey mighty profuse. Four or five mule skinners has their
long limber sixteen-foot whips, which is loaded with dust-shot from
butt to tip, an' is crackin' of 'em at a mark. I've seen one of
these yere mule experts with the most easy, delicate, delib'rate
twist of the wrist make his whip squirm in the air like a hurt
snake; an' then he'll straighten it out with the crack of twenty
rifles, an' the buckskin popper cuts a hole in a loose buffalo robe
he's hung up; an' all without investin' two ounces of actooal
strength. Several of us Wolfville gents is on the sidewalk in front
of the O. K. Restauraw, applaudin' of the good shots, when Dave Tutt
speaks up to Jack Moore, next to me, an' says:
"'Jack, you minds that old Navajo you downs over on the San Simon
last Fall?'"
"'I minds him mighty cl'ar,' says Jack. 'He's stealin' my Alizan
hoss at the time, an' I can prove it by his skelp on my bridle now.'
"'Well,' says Dave, p'intin' to a ornery, saddle-colored half-breed
who's makin' himse'f some frequent, 'that Injun they calls "Pickles"
is his nephy, an' you wants to look out a whole lot. I hears him
allow that the killin' of his relatif is mighty rank, an' that he
don't like it nohow.'
"'That's all right,' says Jack; 'Pickles an' me has been keepin'
cases on each other an hour; an' I'll post you-all private, if he
goes to play hoss a little bit, him an' his oncle will be able to
talk things over before night.'
"Which it's mighty soon when Pickles comes along where we be.
"'Hello, Jack,' he says, an' his manner is insultin'; 'been makin'
it smoky down on the old San Simon lately?'
"'No; not since last fall,' says Jack, plenty light an' free; 'an'
now I thinks of it, I b'lieves I sees that Navajo hoss-thief of an
oncle of yours when I'm down thar last. I ain't run up on him none
lately, though. Where do you-all reckon he's done 'loped to?'
"'Can't say, myse'f,' says Pickles, with a kind o' wicked
cheerfulness; 'our fam'ly has a round-up of itse'f over on B'ar
Creek last spring, an' I don't count his nose among 'em none. Mebby
he has an engagement, an' can't get thar. Mebby he's out squanderin'
'round in the high grass some'ers. Great man to go 'round permiscus,
that Injun is.'
"'You see,' says Jack, 'I don't know but he might be dead. Which the
time I speaks of, I'm settin' in camp one day. Something attracts
me, an' I happens to look up, an' thar's my hoss, Alizan, with a
perfect stranger on him, pitchin' an' buckin', an' it looks like
he's goin' to cripple that stranger shore. Pickles, you knows me!
I'd lose two hosses rather than have a gent I don't know none get
hurt. So I grabs my Winchester an' allows to kill Alizan. But it's a
new gun; an' you know what new sights is--coarse as sandburrs; you
could drag a dog through 'em--an' I holds too high. I fetches the
stranger, "bang!" right back of his left y'ear, an' the bullet comes
outen his right y'ear. You can bet the limit, I never am so
displeased with my shootin'. The idee of me holdin' four foot too
high in a hundred yards! I never is that embarrassed! I'm so plumb
disgusted an' ashamed, I don't go near that equestrian stranger till
after I finishes my grub. Alizan, he comes up all shiverin' an'
sweatin' an' stands thar; an' mebby in a hour or so I strolls out to
the deceased. It shorely wearies me a whole lot when I sees him;
he's nothin' but a common Digger buck. You can drink on it if I
ain't relieved. Bein' a no-account Injun, of course, I don't paw him
over much for brands; but do you know, Pickles, from the casooal
glance I gives, it strikes me at the time it's mighty likely to be
your oncle. This old bronco fancier's skelp is over on my bridle, if
you thinks you'd know it.'
"'No,' says Pickles, mighty onconcerned, 'it can't be my oncle
nohow. If he's one of my fam'ly, it would be your ha'r on his
bridle. It must be some old shorthorn of a Mohave you downs. Let's
all take a drink on it.'
"So we-all goes weavin' over to the Red Light, Jack an' Pickles
surveyin' each other close an' interested, that a-way, an' the rest
of us on the quee vee, to go swarmin' out of range if they takes to
shootin'.
"'It's shore sad to part with friends,' says Pickles, as he secretes
his nose-paint, 'but jest the same I must saddle an' stampede out of
yere. I wants to see that old villyun, Tom Cooke, an' I don't reckon
none I'll find him any this side of Prescott, neither. Be you
thinkin' of leavin' camp yourse'f, Jack?'
"'I don't put it up I'll leave for a long time,' says Jack. 'Mebby
not for a month--mebby it's even years before I go wanderin' off--so
don't go to makin' no friendly, quiet waits for me nowhere along the
route, Pickles, 'cause you'd most likely run out of water or chuck
or something before ever I trails up.'
"It ain't long when Pickles saddles up an' comes chargin' 'round on
his little buckskin hoss. Pickles takes to cuttin' all manner of
tricks, reachin' for things on the ground, snatchin' off Mexicans'
hats, an' jumpin' his pony over wagon tongues an' camp fixin's. All
the time he's whoopin' an' yellin' an' carryin' on, an havin' a high
time all by himse'f. Which you can see he's gettin' up his blood an'
nerve, reg'lar Injun fashion.
"Next he takes down his rope an' goes to whirlin' that. Two or three
times he comes flashin' by where we be, an' I looks to see him make
a try at Jack. But he's too far back, or thar's too many 'round
Jack, or Pickles can't get the distance, or something; for he don't
throw it none, but jest keeps yellin' an' ridin' louder an' faster.
Pickles shorely puts up a heap of riot that a-way! It's now that
Enright calls to Pickles.
"'Look yere, Pickles,' he says, 'I've passed the word to the five
best guns in camp to curl you up if you pitch that rope once. Bein'
as the news concerns you, personal, I allows it's nothin' more'n
friendly to tell you. Then ag'in, I don't like to lose the Red Light
sech a customer like you till it's a plumb case of crowd.'
"When Enright vouchsafes this warnin', Pickles swings down an'
leaves his pony standin', an' comes over.
"'Do you know, Jack,' he says, 'I don't like the onrespectful tones
wherein you talks of Injuns. I'm Injun, part, myse'f, an' I don't
like it.'
"'No?' says Jack; 'I s'pose that's a fact, too. An' yet, Pickles,
not intendin' nothin' personal, for I wouldn't be personal with a
prairie dog, I'm not only onrespectful of Injuns, an' thinks the
gov'ment ought to pay a bounty for their skelps, but I states
beliefs that a hoss-stealin', skulkin' mongrel of a half-breed is
lower yet; I holdin' he ain't even people--ain't nothin', in fact.
But to change the subjeck, as well as open an avenoo for another
round of drinks, I'll gamble, Pickles, that you-all stole that hoss
down thar, an' that the "7K" brand on his shoulder ain't no brand at
all, but picked on with the p'int of a knife.'
"When Jack puts it all over Pickles that a-way, we looks for
shootin' shore. But Pickles can't steady himse'f on the call. He's
like ponies I've met. He'll ride right at a thing as though he's
goin' plumb through or over, an' at the last second he quits an'
flinches an' weakens. Son, it ain't Pickles' fault. Thar ain't no
breed of gent but the pure white who can play a desp'rate deal down
through, an' call the turn for life or death at the close; an'
Pickles, that a-way, is only half white. So he laughs sort o' ugly
at Jack's bluff, an' allows he orders drinks without no wagers.
"'An' then, Jack,' he says, 'I wants you to come feed with me. I'll
have Missis Rucker burn us up something right.'
"'I'll go you,' says Jack, 'if it ain't nothin' but salt hoss.'
"'I'll fix you-all folks up a feed,' says Missis Rucker, a heap
grim, 'but you don't do no banquetin' in no dinin' room of mine.
I'll spread your grub in the camp-house, t'other side the corral,
an' you-all can then be as sociable an' smoky as you please. Which
you'll be alone over thar, an' can conduct the reepast in any
fashion to suit yourse'fs. But you don't get into the dinin' room
reg'lar, an' go to weedin' out my boarders accidental, with them
feuds of yours.'
"After a little, their grub's got ready in the camp house. It's a
jo-darter of a feed, with cake, pie, airtights, an' the full game,
an' Jack an' Pickles walks over side an' side. They goes in alone
an' shets the door. In about five minutes, thar's some emphatic
remarks by two six-shooters, an' we-all goes chargin' to find out.
We discovers Jack eatin' away all right; Pickles is the other side,
with his head in his tin plate, his intellects runnin' out over his
eye. Jack's shore subdooed that savage for all time.
"'It don't look like Pickles is hungry none,' says Jack.
"They both pulls their weepons as they sets down, an' puts 'em in
their laps; but bein' bred across, that a-way, Pickles can't stand
the strain. He gets nervous an' grabs for his gun; the muzzle
catches onder the table-top, an' thar's his bullet all safe in the
wood. Jack, bein' clean strain American, has better luck, an'
Pickles is got. Shore, it's right an' on the squar'!
"'You sees,' says Dan Boggs, 'this killin's bound to be right from
the jump. It comes off by Pickles' earnest desire; Jack couldn't
refoose. He would have lost both skelp an' standin' if he had.
Which, however, if this yere 'limination of Pickles has got to have
a name, my idee is to call her a case of self-deestruction on
Pickles' part, an' let it go at that.'"